=nycterent

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Monday morning, my laptop charger made an odd sputtering sound, and quietly died. What this means is that my time online will be slivered down some. I've ordered a new adapter, but optimistic estimates put the delivery date on this Friday. Here's hoping I don't end up spending the weekend without computer access!

If I'm conspicuously silent or absent, blame technology.

=nycterent

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Two weeks ago, I posted a poll about creativity. The issue can be boiled down to one main question: Is creativity inherent or can it be nurtured/developed?

Why does this matter? Well, because we hear "You're so creative" and "You're so talented" all the time around the art world and dA. There is this Grecian implication that creativity and talent are an indivisible part of us, much like our eye color or hair color. We may buy colored contact lenses and dye hair brown or blond, but that won't change reality; we were born one way and that's that. Some people have blue eyes; others do not.

If art is to be viewed through this lens, then there are certain people to whom art should come like a blaze of inspiration. These are the people who get on the bike for the very first time, and never fall once. Their fairy godmother is a muse and she hovers at the ear, whispering. And everyone else who was not born under a special alignment of stars and with that secret, wild power to create, well, they just don't have it in them. Never did. They're plain, gray people and nothing will ever change it.

This myth is unfair to everyone involved. The artist who hears "You're so creative and talented" smiles and nods, but the claim of talent ignores the hours, days, and years the artist spent working, practicing, learning. Claims of inherent "creativity" and "talent" marginalize the work and persistence that goes into being exceptional.

On the other end of the spectrum are the people who stare at the art with wonder and wish they had the "talent" and "creativity" to make art. Because if it's something you're born with, then why bother trying? That man works as an accountant. Painting is beyond him.

She is an engineer. Dancing is not for her.

The student will be a manager of a store. Filling out forms is all the writing he's comfortable doing.

Not true. Not true.

First, I'll define what the term mean to me. For me, creativity is the ability to look at the world and see potential. It's the habit of seeing something ordinary and to think, "what if?" It's the confidence and willingness to take a risk -- to put yourself out there and smile instead of cringing in embarrassment.

Art, moreover, does not have a monopoly on creativity. Creativity often naturally links to dance, visual art, sculpting, writing, film and other forms of artistic expression. But it is just as fundamental to other disciplines; the best scientist will be the one who looks for unconventional connections. The store owner who sets up the most effective display and tries new products will set new trends. The computer programmer who realizes something can be improved will make thousands.

But, you say, some people are taller, some are shorter. Some people have higher energy levels, some are risk takers. A tone-deaf person won't become a musician. Lance Armstrong, who's won the Tour de France many times, has a resting heart rate of 32-34 beats per minute! Michael Jordan's height is 6 ft 6 in!

Yes, we can have some things be in our favor. But the one thing that is easy to overlook is that out of all the people who are six foot six inches or taller, it was Michael Jordan who became a basketball icon. Lance Armstrong's aerobic capacity is not the best of all the Tour de France entrants. Some people may have an inherent advantage, but that's irrelevant without drive, work, effort and dedication. Beethoven wrote many of his great pieces after he began to lose his hearing.

So can creativity/ability be nurtured or is it inherent?

I believe that creativity is learned and nurtured.

A common counter-example I hear all the time is that children are creative, and as they become adults they become less creative. After all, how many adults still fingerpaint? What about crayons and brilliant, bright colored paintings? Children draw. Adults fill out taxes.

I feel that this argument overlooks reality. Children may draw unconventionally and not very well, but is that because they are more creative and are given those paints with instructions to paint? I'd argue it's because they draw what they see and have a hard time doing it well. Children draw colorful stick figures, copy each other, finger paint, but not because they are more creative, but because they are trying to learn and making mistakes. They're having fun, but read first grade stories, and you'll see how prevalent Disney re-enactments and fairy tales are in their writings. They synthesize their surroundings, just as adults do, and reflect them in their art. But unlike adults, they have little practice doing so.

No, this doesn't make their creations any less wonderful. But look at dA: given a choice between very rough, childish, elementary scribble by a young deviant and a honed, well-executed image by an adult painter, I'd argue you'd find the latter more "creative".

Creativity is nurtured. Thinking takes effort. It's easy to go through life leaning on habit and cliches. Thoughts settle into familiar patterns. Love is a rose, sadness is a gray cloud, routine is useful. Routine is what keeps us from being overwhelmed, but living on autopilot also keeps us from enjoying the moment and seeing things differently. It takes a conscious decision to look around a store and actually notice the people, the items, the emotions and currents and colors around us. Or, when carrying a discovered beetle to the window, to pause and notice the little fuzzy claws at the ends of its feet.

But who has time for this? Not with two kids, not with trying to think of what to make for dinner, not when working two jobs to make ends meet. It's selfish when there's so much to do. "In headaches and in worry / Vaguely life leaks away," and it's easier to say that it's all because we're just not creative, born without a muse, gone with childhood.

We didn't lose it, no. It just went away.


Not true.


So here's to being that little bit selfish and exercising that creativity muscle even a little bit every single day, until, like any pro bicyclist or star sports player, it becomes something other people will point to and call "talent".

=nycterent

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My life got put on hold for the last week or so, thus the silence. Intermishhhhhion.

But I have a few offsite treats I'd like to share.



In the meantime, the critique requests are queued in my Critique feature on my front page, I'm still here, just hiding under a rock, and get ready to see a blinding flurry of activity from me soon.

Good things come in threes.

Poetry Critiquing Contest results are in. I placed and I'm very pleased about the win. Thank you, ^fllnthblnk for hosting it!

Last night, I also received a note that I had been featured by *DailyDeviants for Tuesday, October 20th, 2009. Thanks `GaioumonBatou. You made my evening yesterday.

There's a bunch of stuff that goes here and every single one of you make it all fantastic.

=nycterent

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Warning: Pseudo-intellectual pep-talk ramble ahead.

This post was inspired by a conversation I had with a deviant in passing. Browsing through the Newest Poetry Gallery, I read a short poem -- nothing singular about it -- and a few comment replies later about the 'interpretive' nature of poetry, I asked the deviant, If everything in the poem is relative and up for interpretation, is it fair to say that the fact that this is a poem at all is up for interpretation? Why do you feel it's a poem?

The (now paraphrased) reaction was instant and defensive -- the poem didn't have a rhyme or structure but that didn't mean it wasn't a poem!

Of course a poem doesn't have to have rhyme or meter. Quite a lot of modern verse is free. But why did the writer feel it was a poem? I asked again: What made it a poem for the deviant?

The response shifted and morphed over the length of the conversation. Because I would understand if I had read His Dark Materials fantasy novels, (which I had, but I guess I didn't read them carefully enough, as I was still confused at this explanation). Because some things defy explanation and we are drawn to do them. Because the poem was 'meant' to be written. Because he (the writer) was only half human and I couldn't understand. Because he made someone feel better with a piece he jotted down. Because he has a girlfriend...

But to me, none of those responses (including ones that I think were meant non-seriously) were satisfactory. They dodged the actual question.

Why does the question of intent matter? Why should the artist have any idea why or what his (or her) creation is?

I'd say it matters. It matters whether I want my "poem" to be a message to the reader, or if it's written as a diary entry of my thoughts, as a healing process. It makes a difference to me and to the reader whether I write (or draw, or play, or dance, or sing) for myself, for others, or in a way that's meant to fulfill me and the audience.

It matters how I define art. It matters that a poem, in my mind, it more than linebroken prose, or strangely formatted journal entry. More than a few lines of rhyme.

I'll be the first person to agree that it's difficult to define what poetry is. We know it when we see it, but defining it in specific terms is nigh impossible.

But I feel it's criminal to be unable to define why you write poetry or what it means to you on a personal level.

A response doesn't have to be complicated, and it doesn't have to be just one thing. Maybe because I have something I want to share. Maybe because I wrote the poem while I was sobbing and I feel that a poem is pure, unedited emotions, typos and all. Maybe because I wrote it to reach other people and give them hope. Maybe because I just read Neruda and wanted to try his style. Maybe because I feel poetry is a jigsaw of words and I put that puzzle together into this configuration...

The reasons are many, and they are all valid. Whatever the reasons are, I can't help but feel that there needs to be something more solid than a vague sense of well-it-kinda-looks-like-a-poem-doesn't-it. Putting a definition in more concrete terms than "fate" or "just because" lets us grow as artists. It lets us put our place in the literary and artistic world in perspective. Do we see poetry as something that's revised, read, critiqued, and published? Do we see our art as something we do to release inner pain or inner torment? Are we somewhere between those extremes, or in an entirely different place? Perhaps the writer wants to make a social point. Perhaps the writer wants to give a beautiful gift to his beloved. Perhaps there's a cat involved.

Perhaps.

But in each of these responses lie different directions. Different things become relevant for the reader and the writer, during the process of writing/reading and after. If a poem is actually a journal entry with linebreaks, it would not be relevant to focus on the metrical structure and rhyme scheme. Rather, sharing my own phobias of flying might just be the thing, or offering sympathy and a few words of comfort. But if the writer wants to be published, yeah talking about syntax inversion and syllable count becomes relevant and appreciated.

And no, this isn't limited to comments. Until I defined what I wanted out of poetry for myself, I just wrote, hoping for genius to fall from the sky and strike me on the head. It took me a while, but I finally said, "you know what? Poetry is art too. I'm going to figure this thing out." I started reading poetry. I started learning. I started experimenting. I still do it for myself, and I still enjoy praise (who doesn't!) but I set my interests and I defined what I wanted. Once I knew what I wanted, and why I was doing it, I could focus on figuring out how to do it better. And I knew that one of the goals of writing was to make something that could be enjoyed by a complete stranger.

So I say, let us define why we do the things we do.

And no, let's not put it in stone. Our life is fluid, and so should our definitions and perceptions, changing and evolving. But whatever you decide, I say we need to say no to directionless inertia. No to meandering, and no to imagining that fate will magically make everything happen. Art has purpose, art has direction, art has definition, even if it's different every time we ask ourselves "why?".

To pretend otherwise leads to selling ourselves short.

=nycterent

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I would like to share a few thoughts on what critique is here.


Critique is effort. When I write a critique, I inspect the piece. I respect it. If it's a story or poem, I reread it several times before even putting a "hi there" in the critique box. And when I do start writing, my comments tend to be around a thousand words long. That's an essay.

Critique is time. I spend about an hour (or longer) on every critique I write. I do that because I not only try to analyze what I'm seeing in the piece and what I think can be improved, but because I go through it and try and make it friendly and courteous.

Critique is not mind-reading. I only respond to what's on the screen. For example, I can't know that you intentionally ignored all grammar and rhythm standards. But if I talk about it, it means that it didn't work for me.

Critique is subjective. It's an opinion. This is me sitting down and giving a very long comment on my own reactions to the piece. An opinion.

Critique is work. I do it because I enjoy it and enjoy helping artists, but sometimes, my critique takes me longer to write than a poem or story. Please respect that.

Critique can be wrong. Like I said, it's an opinion. So there's no need to be nasty about my effort and sincere attempt to help. I am biased, as are all people in the world. I have preferences, and so do you. Move on.

Critique is respect. I would not be writing to you if I didn't feel you could take my opinions, and be an artist about them. I wouldn't spend time on a poem if I didn't feel it was worth spending time on. I give my respect. Whether you throw it out in a wastebin is up to you. But once you lose it, you don't get a second chance.

Critique is a gift. It's my gift to you, anonymous person, freely given with no expectations, except the hope it'll make you smile when you open your message center.


I am an artist.
I am a human being.
I do it because I love it.
Every critique is my creation.
Every critique I write is constructive.


You will not harm me, but you do disappoint.
And sometime, that is the worst of the two.